


Don't Be The Wave That Crashes

by solitariusvirtus



Series: Uncanny Westeros (Otherworlds) [32]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-20
Updated: 2019-10-20
Packaged: 2020-12-26 23:56:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21109286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solitariusvirtus/pseuds/solitariusvirtus
Summary: Ned clutched the badly burned body to his chest. The white cloak beneath the corpse, smeared with soot and ash, was still very much a stark contrast to the blackened, empty husk in his arms. One day, only one day too late. It was enough to make a man want to tear his own hair out. “She slept. I doubt she survived the smoke.” The words were meant to be a comfort, as much as they could be in any event.AU! Sometimes, we do not even have the comfort of promises.





	Don't Be The Wave That Crashes

She heard the squawk of pain and struggled to sit up, woozy head seeming ready to unspool all its content upon the ground right along with the hearty meal she had consumed in the morning hours at any moment. “Stop,” she moaned, reaching out with shaking fingers. A hand caught hers, rough and warm its hold. Her eyes focused on the worried face of one Arthur Dayne. For a brief moment all else died down, leaving her bereft save for the solidity of his presence. Then the world was spinning. His lips were moving but she heard nothing over the rush of her own blood. She felt her gorge rise and could cobble little together by way of warning before she was choking on the bile.

Heaved sideways, she spat as much as she could onto the ground below, her eyes and throat stinging with the effort. A strangled sound made its past her lips. A hand settled on her beck just below her shoulder, pressing the spot gently. At the very least she could make out the words. “Try to get out as much as you can.”

“Wylla,” she said after a brief silence, using the moment of peace to wipe her mouth. Much as she trusted the man, she did not wish to be cared for by him. 

“She is unavailable.” He said it kindly, but for all that she could not feel at ease with what she heard. Lyanna glanced over her shoulder at him. He was looming over her, one knee pressed into the mattress as he stretched out towards her. Much as she wished to ask after her bondswoman, the only thing she could do was turn right around and unburden her stomach once more. The stench was unbearable and she retched even harder.

Unable to keep track of the passage of time, Lyanna could not be certain when it was that the other man stepped into the chamber. The only coherent thought she had was that the blood she could clearly see soaking into the front of his garb could have only one source. Nevertheless, the man did not flinch at the sight of her and instead moved past the mess at his feet.

“Wylla,” she demanded a second time past the tightness of her throat. “I need her.” Ser Oswell merely picked her up with the ease one might lift a ragdoll and carried her from the chamber. It took some time for him to speak.

Settled in the bed Rhaegar had occupied before his departure, she coughed, annoyed at both at the familiar scent and her own weakness to it. Her attention snapped to the knight when he finally elected to give her an explanation. “Cook will aid you in any matter from this point onwards.” Hoping she did not have to ask a second time, Lyanna merely stared. “The other one was part of a plot beyond the shadow of a doubt.”

Her first instinct was to deny the accusation. “How?” Wylla had been diligent and careful in her tasks, her manner pleasant but never overly warm which had never bothered Lyanna in the least until that very moment.

“Poison.” That explained the strange brew they’d forced down her throat and the incoherent encouragements she got from Arthur ever so often. “The food for certain, might be the sheets as well. We are burning the contents of the other chamber. This shall serve just as well,” he nodded towards the chamber.

She had about a thousand questions, but the ripple of pain in the lower half of her body put paid to any action she might have taken there. “Water.” Her request was met with alacrity and she found a cup poised to her lips. Lyanna sipped carefully, cleansing the inside of her mouth thoroughly before she turned and spat the contents upon the ground.. The knight offered her the cup once more and she drank deeply the second time around. He pulled back after a few moments. “Send the woman to me.”

Left alone, she looked about the chamber, eyes falling upon one of the chests near the wall. Just beneath the lancet, Rhaegar had left a number of chests, each one weighed down by gold and shimmering stones. He’d said at that time that he should pay ten times that to her father if only he took it for a bride price. They’d laughed together’ her more for the fact that her sire would never accept that as long as he had his plans and him, she supposed, for the conviction that he would succeed.

Her father was dead. Rhaegar was dead. Her gaze moved to the ceiling. She half-jumped to a sitting position with the oncoming wave of pain. She turned and raised one of the pillows against the headboard, leaning into its plump body once she was done. Pain snaked around her lower back and she wished she had enough strength to rise and walk about. Alas, she feared she might fall flat on her face should she make such an attempt.

The door creaked open and in stepped the rotund form of the one woman apparently trustworthy enough to be around her. “Ye called, m’lady?” Her voice was high and nasal, somewhat at odds with her appearance. All the same, she seemed well enough for work and she nodded along, calling her further in. The door shut with a soft thud.

“Have you any children?” she questioned before a moment had passed, pressing harder against the headboard to relieve the gathering tension. The woman nodded, her cheeks growing pink. Lyanna made a sound in the back of her throat. “Had you any aid when you delivered them?”

“For the first.” Eased by the certainty of the response, she waited for more. Appearing to gather as much, the older woman relented without hesitation. “I’ve five in all, m’lady. For four of ‘em I had only meself to rely on.”

“That will do. Pray, look for what is needful about the bedchamber. I shall be only too glad for any insight you might provide me with.” The woman opened chests and tugged sheets free, she even managed to laid out a tunic for her to garb herself in when came the time and yet another, soft sleeping garment, by the looks of it, for the babe. It took not too long for these preparations to come to fruition and before long Lyanna found herself on her own feet, wobbling ever so slightly as the lacings holding her garment together were unknotted. The stain of sickness upon them she could bear not long and turned away, climbing under warm covers.

From there she had only to wait as buckets of water were carried in, as the pain grew in intensity and the waves came closer and closer apart. She hadn’t the presence of mind to wonder about aught else beside the most pressing concern of her own comfort. She could not say that the hands she was left in were careless with her, but then no hands had ever been careless with her, and vowed then not to place her trust so easily in the woman. Thus she watched her with great care.

* * *

Dawn lied draped across his knees. “If we kill her, we learn nothing.” It was not that Arthur had any reservations about spilling blood, especially not the blood of some traitorous wench who would have foiled all the well-laid plans for a bag of coin. All the same, to take her life was to forfeit any chance of finding the true brains behind the plot and give merited punishment. “More importantly, Lady Lyanna might still meet her end, no matter our attempts to purge her of the poison. It is best to settle upon a plan regarding the child.”

The Bull, whose hand was still wrapped about the base of a drinking horn, had a scoff for that. “And do what with him? Unless any of you can conjure an army willing to fight to put ultimate power in the hands of a babe, you’d best be looking for passage to Essos and be certain to cover the child’s face in soot.” He drained his drink.

“Are you sotted,” Whent demanded, “or merely heartless? This may not be the outcome we wished for, but here it is. And like it or not, we have yet to carry out our duty.” Ever easy to anger had their Lord Commander been. Arthur was not surprised when the man stood, towering over his brother-in-arms. The difference in heights was most pronounced with one dominating the chamber with a hulking form as the other stood before him, though straight of back, clearly under threat.

“The Prince’s corpse feeds the fish of the Trident. Your King is slain. Any ties you might have had to this duty are cut.” Whent was not backing down, however, such was his character and even in the face of his direct superior, he had but a wry smile to add to his words.

“I am master of my own actions, Gerold.” Oswell combed his fingers through his hair with a quick movement. “Rhaegar never meant for power to pass down onto this child and as such there will be no need for us to gather much in the way of an army. As for passage upon a ship, we’ve more than enough coin to pay for it.”

“You speak as though the matter has been settled.” Arthur would not have stepped into the conflict were he not confounded. The words fell heavily between them, the silence stretching and filling the space between them.

Oswell looked from one to the other, then gave the merest nod. “We now have a body to burn that may be taken for the lady.”

A dark chuckle came from the Lord Commander. “Have I understood you, you mean to slay that woman and burn her corpse in hopes that whoever comes here for the lady will take it that she is long dead?” He threw the drinking horn away, the piece smashing against the wall from the force of the hit. “Who is behind this Oswell? Who pulls the strings here?”

“There are no strings to be pulled.”

“You witless cunt; of course strings are being pulled. Have you learned nothing?” It was then that a scream tore through the swelling tension. All three of them looked up towards the ceiling. “Dayne, go see to the lady. Whent and I have a conversation to conclude.”

Dawn still unsheathed, Arthur made his way without the chamber and climbed his way up the stairs. The door was wide open and he had a fair view of the inside of the chamber. The cook was encouraging the she-wolf to greater effort and the girl seemed to be doing her best to go along with the instructions. It was not a matter he might weigh in on, but he could be of some use, he perceived, by taking out one of the buckets that had been pushed over, bathing the floors in what looked to be murky water.

* * *

Ned clutched the badly burned body to his chest. The white cloak beneath the corpse, smeared with soot and ash, was still very much a stark contrast to the blackened, empty husk in his arms. One day, only one day too late. It was enough to make a man want to tear his own hair out. “She slept. I doubt she survived the smoke.” The words were meant to be a comfort, as much as they could be in any event. Ned looked up into the face of an arguably filthy Kingsguard. There had been no irons clasped about the man’s wrists and no ropes binding him. There was honour in the man before him and yet to Ned, in that moment, he was as hateful as the monsters that had slain those defenceless children. “I am sorry.”

He put Lyanna back down, tugging the corners of the cloak about the emaciated form. The Ned stood. He looked towards the ruins of the tower and pushed past the knight of the Kingsguard. The small hall he entered had an odd circular shape. He walked past a coffer placed awkwardly in the middle of the floors and climbed the blackened stone stairs. The living quarters he found with relative ease, determining which had housed his sister.

In spite of the destruction the fire had wrought, he still found one or two of her possessions. Something to take back with him to Winterfell. The dagger Brandon had jestingly pressed into her hands, along with a flower-shaped hair ornament. He picked both up. Eyes stinging with unshed tears, he continued his tour of the chamber. It was almost as though her presence yet lingered. There was no chair for Ned to fall into, and no sister to offer him comfort; thus tears could not fall. He would simply have to accept that she was gone.

The sound of footfalls pulled him from his thoughts. Reed’s familiar face entered his field of vision as he turned towards the door of the chamber. “My lord.” His voice was soft, as though he did not wish to attract attention. Ned moved towards him. “I am ill at ease.” Not more so than him. Ned said naught to that, he merely stared uncomprehendingly. “We ought to depart.”

“A few moments longer.” He yet wanted to speak to the shade of his sister, if she had not gone from these parts yet and he was more than certain she had not. “I shall come to you,” he dismissed the man, relieved when Reed left without comment.

Fingers wrapped around the hair ornament, he drew his thumb over the carved surface. “What were you thinking?” That was the foremost question on his mind. Why had his sister thought her actions worth taking? What could have possibly pushed her onto such a path? And without a word of warning. “Truly, Lya; what could you have possibly been thinking?” Alas, there would be no answers for him and he would do better to lock these queries away. 

* * *

Ashara’s arms were wrapped tightly about him. Arthur kept his own hold tight on his sister, lips pressed to her temple. Her tears were yet falling; he knew not whether for relief or sorrow or both. “I am so sorry,” she whispered to him after they’d finally pulled apart. He nodded his acceptance of the words and did no more for she turned towards Lord Stark and his company. “My lord, I welcome you once again to Starfall and beg that you accept the humble hospitality we have to offer. Your men must be tired.”

Something shifted in Ned Stark’s gaze. He was a quiet fellow by nature, thus there could be no expectation of overwhelming reactions, yet the small tired smile he somehow managed to forge was quite enough to leave an impression. His sister continued. “I am very grateful for your kindness.”

He did not want to stay. He had a dead sister to bury and a keep and a family to see to. And yet, he would not leave until he saw his men well-rested and thus gave in. And in doing so found himself having a taste of what life at the side of Ashara Dayne might have been like. 

* * *

Robb was a plump-cheeked babe with flaming hair and clear blue eyes. Ned stared in fascination at the face of his son, not entirely certain he knew how to feel about the small creature nestled at his chest. He stared thus, unable to put words to his feelings or emotion to his thoughts. His wife was standing on the other side of the empty crib, hands clasped before her, gazing expectantly between him and the child. He couldn’t do it after all. Ned handed the child back to his mother before he turned on his heel and abandoned the chamber.

Out in the hallway the air seemed all that easier to breathe in. He did not have to recall having been in that chamber, holding another babe altogether. His feet carried him without his heed and he barely heard the voice of Catelyn Tully behind him. It was her hands on his arm, tugging him backwards that had him pause. “My lord, what is the matter?”

He started at the question. “I have to go, Lady Catelyn.” Her eyes, wide and uncomprehending, fixated upon him. But she let go, which was his goal. And he was once more making his way without, into the wintery courtyard, past servants and familiar pathways for the only place which might give him solace. The child in his arms had turned to ash and he could not help but think that fire had taken so much from him and might yet take more. The godswood awaited him.

Yet it was not empty. Happier days had seen him sitting beneath the weirwood with a hand around his sister’s shoulder, sharing concerns. She played and jested with Benjen and more than often picked Brandon’s brains on the matter of lances and swords, much to their eldest brother’s annoyance. In spite of his sister’s absence, Benjen was there, seated on a stump, his cloak tightly wrapped about his shoulders. His lips were blue.

“What’s that in your hand?” he questioned, nodding to his brother’s clasped hands. Benjen looked at him with something akin to anger. He recognised soon enough what it was his sibling held. Instinctively, he drew back. Creased petals fell upon the ground, soft blue amid the tarnished white. “It grows cold.” A leaf escaped its bond and glided to the ground, covering a few of the petals. “You ought to return to the keep.”

“And do what?” his brother questioned mockingly. “Shall I have tea with your wife and listen to her lament? Or might be sit with the maester and muddle my way through lessons of houses, lords and sigils?” The flower was flung away. “Nay; I know, might be I could go to court and mend bridges with the King.” A mangled cluster of petals lied between them.

“You are not the only one who lost her.” It always came back to Lyanna, ever tightening as a noose around his throat. The ground beneath his feet felt unsteady.

“But I am the only one who listened.”

**Author's Note:**

> Having a cold blows. Yeah, that's basically it.


End file.
